He gulps, his brow crushed in anguish. As if moving on its own, his right foot swings forward and plants itself in a step toward me. His face implores me, tears jostle loose from his eyes.

“War is the spirit that seeks your life,” I say, not knowing what I’m saying. “Don’t—... Don’t let—”

With a sob, he reaches out and shoves my chest with both his palms, driving me a step back. Strangled sounds jerk out of his mouth. He advances again and shoves me harder, head flung back, eyes shut, desperate bleat in his throat.

I turn and run from him. Not wanting to lead him toward the patrol I bear to my left, and eventually duck down out of sight behind seething black shrubs. He dashes past me, arms flung back his whole body rocking from side to side as he runs. His head twists on his neck and as it twists in my direction he sees me and stops. Legs apart, he stands with arms held out like a man who’s just been dowsed with cold water, and his face congeals in a mask of horror. Helplessly he stretches open his mouth, screams with unreasoning rage and despair, and runs at me.

Sharp voices to one side—I see my patrol, drawn by his cries. Their guns sputter and not seven feet from me, two or three shots pluck at him, and he falls. But he lunges to his feet again and runs from side to side before their guns, half bent and bloody, crying out for someone to turn to. Shots thump into him as he runs, head thrown back his mouth bawling, a shot hits him and he crumples to his knees, droops forward. A bullet tears across the curve of his back. I hear his faint, mournful “uh,” when that groove appears as if by magic there.

“It’s me!” I shriek, my voice breaking. “Stop shooting!”

For a moment he is still. The fading sound of the shots echo into the mineral forest. Then the war inside him forces him back up onto his broken legs, and with a scream he blunders forward. Half a dozen gunshots hit him, and he collapses onto his back.

I rush to his side, shouting, throwing up my hands at the others. The shooting stops; one bullet fired too late thumps into the ground a few feet from me. I kneel by his side. His fractured legs still struggle to set his heels against the ground. His upper body is rigid, his face shaking, every muscle contracted, horror, anguish in his eyes, terror in his throat coming out in a ragged, faltering cry, that momentarily sets his vocal chords ringing in the clear sweet tone of his usual, his real voice. As I peer into his eyes, the tension begins to dwindle from his features. They slacken with his feeble scream, and release his face as the sound stops with his breath. Something jealous is finally relinquishing its grip on him. He dies, and leaves the war.